


When the Dust Settles

by TheGirlWhoRemembers



Series: Lives Lived in the Background [8]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Family, Friendship, Gen, Healing, One Shot Collection, Post-War, Recovery, minor characters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-08 05:46:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 17,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8832754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGirlWhoRemembers/pseuds/TheGirlWhoRemembers
Summary: Many lives were lost at the Battle of Hogwarts. But for the survivors, life continues, through good and bad. Or, a series of oneshots about Dumbledore's Army after the War.Latest Update: Birth and Rebirth. 'It's shameful, in this day and age, that wizards aren't there to support their witches as they give birth' As Padma delivers their son, Terry sits outside, wracked with guilt...





	1. Worth It (April 2001)

**Author's Note:**

> Written pre-Cursed Child and Fantastic Beasts.

‘Sis, sis!’

Padma turns around, but Parvati speaks again before she can.

‘Come Muggle clubbing with me and Lav tonight? Please? To celebrate you finishing your Healer training?’

Padma sighs internally.

She doesn’t want to go. She doesn’t like loud places. She doesn’t like crowded places. She doesn’t like dancing very much, and dislikes what passes for ‘dancing’ in Muggle clubs even less. She doesn’t drink alcohol. She loathes wearing the ‘clothes’ that one wears for such an activity.

It’s a Saturday night, only a handful of days after she’d qualified as a Healer.

She would much rather spend tonight in much the same way as she’d spent last night. (Terry had left work at the Ministry on time, a rare occurrence, they’d packed a simple picnic, and gone to a quiet Muggle park to eat, star-gaze and talk, as a celebration of her graduation.) 

If it was just about what she wanted, she’d like to have a sedate dinner with Terry tonight, and discuss the latest anti-prejudice education reforms, an interesting article on Muggle-Magical complimentary medicine she’d read this morning and his latest spell-inventing project. 

But it wasn’t just about what she wanted. It wasn’t just about her.

In fact, it was really more about what Parvati and Lavender wanted, it was really more about them.

It was a little over three years after the War, and both Parvati and Lavender still attended weekly sessions with a Mind-Healer.

Lavender had been attacked by Greyback, resulting in terrible scarring to her body. But that scarring had also left her with equally, if not more, horrible mental scars.  
Parvati had suffered as they all had during the War, but she’d also had to see her best friend ripped apart, lying deathly still, and deal with the mental wounds of the man she loved. She’d had to hold Lavender and Dean together when they couldn’t. In the end, Parvati had needed the Mind-Healer almost as much as they had.

The first two years had been really, really bad.

Of late, they were getting better. 

(Padma reckons that Parvati quitting her job as an Auror to start a robe shop three months ago really helped.)

The two giggly, gossipy girly-girls that Parvati and Lavender had once been were gone forever.

But, two social butterflies of young women, who were inordinately fond of clothing and jewellery and _Witch Weekly_ were emerging. 

Oh, they had their bad days.

Everyone who’d lived through the War had their bad days.

But things were looking up.

In the last few months, Lavender and Parvati had taken up Muggle clubbing. They were so young still, barely into their twenties, so it was very natural, and very good, that they wanted to experience such things. And it was so much easier to go out into the Muggle world; they didn’t have to see reminders of the War everywhere, didn’t have to be mobbed and recognised. They didn’t have to put up with the looks, the stares, the whispers. 

Besides, Muggle clubbing was much more fun than visiting Wizarding bars, or so Padma had been told. 

The Mind-Healer had told her that it was important to encourage Parvati and Lavender in this endeavour. It was important to their recovery, she’d said, and Padma’s own knowledge and training backed that up. 

Thus, she’d found herself in Muggle clubs a handful of times in the last few months. 

And tonight will be no different.

She smiles.

‘Okay, Vati.’

==========

‘Oh, come on, sis, you can’t possibly wear _that!_ ’

Padma looks down at her dark blue, knee length, short-sleeved dress, tights and black flats.

_Yes, yes I can._

Lavender shakes her head. 

‘Absolutely not, Pad! You’re twenty-one and _fit_! You should dress like it sometimes!’

And she waves her wand, and Padma watches as her dress’s hem goes up to mid-thigh, the sleeves are replaced with straps, her tights vanish, and her sensible flats are replaced with sky-high heels.

Padma grimaces.

_I’ll go for their sakes, I’ll do a lot for their sakes, but this might just cross the line..._

Lavender grins.

‘Oh, come on! It’s not that bad at all! If I didn’t have a few things to hide, I’d go for something even more daring! Don’t tell me you never dress like this!’

She takes one look at the expression on Padma’s face.

‘Seriously? Not even for Terry?’

Padma blushes.

_Terry happens to be rather fond of the original version of this dress..._

Parvati snorts.

‘It’s my sis we’re talking about, Vati. She’s a lost cause.’

A slow, almost-wolfish, smile slides across Lavender’s face.

‘Oh, I don’t know about that...’

And then they attack her with lipstick and blush and mascara and goodness knows what else.

It’s not the first time this has happened, not at all. It’s a repeat of what happens every time before they go out clubbing, a little series of events that’s become like a ritual.

==========

Padma hates the makeup and the clothing and the noise and the dancing and the alcohol and the being hit on by men.

In short, she hates going Muggle clubbing.

She doesn’t like it when Parvati tries to drag her out on the dance floor to dance with some young Muggle. 

_(‘I have a boyfriend, Vati! As a matter of fact, you and Lavender are not unattached, either! What about Dean and Seamus?’ Parvati rolls her eyes. ‘We’re not even flirting with other guys, it’s just dancing! And yes, we love them and are faithful to them and all that, sis. Besides, they know we’re here, and they understand...’)_

But it’s all worth it when she sees Parvati laugh and grin, her eyes full of happiness as she dances.

It’s all worth it when she literally sees Lavender’s self-confidence rise as she catches the eyes of men in the form-fitting bodysuit she’s taken to wearing when they go out like this.

(It hides the scars, and shows off her figure. It’s perfect, Lavender says.) 

It’s all worth it to see them living as, acting like, _being_ the two young women they should’ve been, even if it’s just for a few hours.

It’s worth it.


	2. Playing Dress-Up (October 2001)

Anthony Goldstein pursed his lips as he looked at Terry, who was standing in the living room of his, Terry and Michael’s shared flat.

Terry was wearing a tweed hat, with a matching tweed overcoat with a cape-like attachment. He was also carrying a magnifying glass and a wooden pipe.

This was most certainly not normal attire for Terry, who normally wore neat and plain navy blue, grey or black robes to work at the Ministry.

Then again, that was not surprising.

Hermione Granger had organized a Halloween party this year, and had invited the entire DA as well as others who had been at Hogwarts with them.  It was bittersweet, for there were many who would not be there, but, at last, three years after the war, many had recovered enough to be able to attend this night of frivolity.

She had declared that the theme was Muggle Halloween, hence, everyone was required to wear a costume, as Muggles did on Halloween.

Anthony had always been interested in Muggles; Muggle Studies had been one of his favourite subjects at Hogwarts. (The proper stuff, not the bigoted rubbish they were forcibly taught in 7th Year.) He’d never had the chance to dress up like a Muggle for Halloween, and had been looking forward to the experience for weeks.

He’d also declared that he wished to be given the opportunity to guess whom or what Terry, Michael and Padma were dressed at, so had forbidden them from telling him what they were going as. (After all, he was determined to prove to Michael that reading all the books on Muggles he read did pay off. And maybe he wanted to prove that he, a pureblood raised largely ignorant of Muggles, could be just as knowledgeable about them as half-bloods Terry and Michael. Padma was also pureblood, but he took for granted that Terry would help her with her costume.)

And so, he had to deduce what, or perhaps whom, Terry sought to pretend to be in that tweed hat.

The young man in question continued to stand there, face impassive.

That costume, that pipe, that hat seemed so familiar...but he couldn’t quite place it. He needed a hint.

Terry, as usual, somehow managed to pick up on that thought.

‘Think Muggle literature.’

_Muggle Literature...books...okay, he’s probably a book character...pipe...tweed hat...magnifying glass..._

And then it hit him.

‘Holmes! You’re Sherlock Holmes!’

Terry smiled.

‘Elementary, my dear Watson.’

‘Well, it suits you.’

Terry looked over Anthony’s costume once.

‘I see you’ve taken advantage of your prosthesis. You make a most convincing pirate.’

Anthony grinned, looking down at the prosthesis that had replaced his lower left leg after the Battle of Hogwarts. Today, he had enchanted it to make it look like a wooden peg leg, and clothed himself to look like a Muggle pirate, complete with a (fake) golden hoop earring, stripy clothing and a (also fake) cutlass.

The two young men heard a rustle of fabric, and turned to see Padma, wearing a large and very ornate gown, with a matching hairstyle and headpiece exiting Terry’s room. Anthony soon recognised her dress, hair and hat as being typical of the Muggle Victorian Era.

He was sure that he read somewhere that Muggle couples had a tendency to dress in complimentary or matching costumes. Coupled with Padma’s costume...there was only one logical conclusion, and he didn’t need Holmes’ (or Terry’s) deduction skills to work it out.

‘You’re Irene Adler!’

Padma smiled.

‘Yes, yes I am. I read _Scandal in Belgravia_ last week _,_ and she’s a really fascinating character, isn’t she? Well, I don’t think I’m very much like her, but it’s nice to dress up as someone completely different from oneself sometimes, isn’t it?’

Anthony opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by a loud voice.

‘If I profane with my unworthiest hand, this holy shrine...’

Michael appeared, wearing a richly embroidered tunic with hose. He looked like he was out of the 16th century, which was probably his intention.

‘Romeo, Mike? You’re making it easy for me.’

Michael rolled his eyes.

‘He’s the dashing and romantic male lead in the most romantic play of all time! How could I possibly go as anyone else?’

Anthony groaned.

‘You’re hopeless, Mike.’

Michael rearranged the sword at his waist.

‘Nay, it is you who is hopeless, fine sir! It is ye who did not recognize that he loved a maiden until she’d been away in yonder lands for half a year! It is ye who ne’er journeyed to join her, it is ye who waited for her to return...which took a bloody year and a half, and then you waited another six months to actually tell her you loved her! Six months!’

Anthony reddened.

‘I wrote to Lisa! I wrote to her as often as owls would allow when she was gone, and I wrote her every day when she returned!’

‘Writing’s not the same! It doesn’t count!’

‘Does so!’

Padma opened her mouth to interrupt (Michael and Anthony could go on forever...), but Terry shook his head.

‘Your attempt would likely be futile. Besides, considering how much effort Hermione has gone to in order to organize this party, I think we should contribute to the entertainment.’

Padma laughed.

‘Well, when you put it that way...’

He smiled at her, and offered her his arm.

Padma took it, and the two walked out the door...leaving a bickering pirate and Romeo behind them.

* * *

Dean smiled to himself as he examined his reflection in the mirror in the bathroom of his and Seamus’ flat. He adjusted his bright-green hat, so that it sat on his head at a slight angle.

Parvati, Lavender and Seamus had all eagerly agreed that he would choose their costumes for Hermione’s Halloween party. (He was the only Muggleborn of the four, after all. He was also the artist.) He’d chosen to theme all of their costumes, so they were all going as the Muggle versions of magical creatures.

He was a sprite, clothed from head to toe in green, with slightly pointed ears, a little green glitter and some ivy draping over him.

Loud footsteps sounded behind him.

He turned to find Seamus, also covered entirely in green, adjusting an Irish-green top hat decorated with a shamrock on the hat band.

Seamus was a leprechaun, of course.

The young Irishman scratched his chin, which was obscured by a fake beard.

‘Are Vati and Lav coming here to meet us, or are we going to their flat?’

Dean carefully checked his wand was in pocket. (Okay, he was still rather paranoid about it. The Mind Healer said it was normal.)

‘They’re coming here. ’

Seamus smiled wryly.

‘Good. I’d rather not go to their place, you know. Padma lives there...and that means Terry might be there...and he’s a great man, DA and all, and a great help in Seventh Year...’

‘But he’s kinda creepy?’

Seamus snorted.

‘Yeah. I mean, he knows everything, about everyone! I know he means no harm, but it’s just kinda scary sometimes.’

Dean nodded.

‘Vati talks about it sometimes.’

 A female voice was heard at the door of the bathroom.

‘What do I talk about?’

‘How beautiful you and Lav are.’

Parvati rolled her eyes.

‘Seriously, Dean?’

He simply smiled at her.

‘You are beautiful. You’re particularly beautiful in that costume.’

She grinned.

‘Now you’re just flattering me.’

He pretended to look affronted.

‘No, it’s the truth.

(And it was, and he was sure it wasn’t just his admittedly strong bias making it the truth. Parvati made a simply gorgeous genie.)

She gave him a quick peck on the lips, and took his hand, leading him out of the bathroom.

‘You’re wonderful. Now, we’d best get going. Fashionably late is one thing, but far too late is another! Come on Shay, Lav! You can snog when we get there!’

The leprechaun and the vampire (Lavender had loved the irony) broke apart, not even slightly embarrassed.

Parvati waggled a finger at the two.

‘Now, keep your hands off each other till we get there!’

* * *

Demelza stared at herself in the mirror.

She was standing there, wearing chain-mail, a fake sword at her hip.

What was she doing?

She should have been at St Mungo’s, with Ritchie, not going to some frivolous Halloween party. She couldn’t stomach the idea of going, of trying to be happy.

He’d only woken up two months ago, after all.

And he still wasn’t well.

When he’d woken, he couldn’t even remember who he was. Then, with time, he’d recalled his identity, recalled his life.

Well, most of his life. The last thing he’d remembered was sneaking back into Hogwarts to fight.

The Mind Healers had said that he’d probably never remember the actual Battle. (Demelza counted that a blessing. She remembered, and the pain was far too great.)

But he’d been unconscious for over three years. He didn’t know what happened to Colin, he didn’t know what happened to Jimmy, he didn’t know what fates had befallen his three best friends.

He didn’t know that Demelza was the only one left alive.

They’d had to break it to him. They’d tried to do it gently, the Mind Healers said.

Demelza snorted.

As if that could be done gently.

She couldn’t be there when they’d told him.

She just couldn’t.

She might have been a Gryffindor, but she wasn’t brave enough to sit there beside him, to watch the agony on his face as he was told.

She couldn’t go through it again.

It used up all her courage to go and visit him every single day, to sit beside him and keep him company, to talk with him on his good days.

(There were some days where he remembered all save the Battle, remembered his losses, remembered who he was. There were others where he was out of his mind completely, and no-one could understand him. And there were those days that he remembered everything- except the most important thing: that Jimmy and Colin were dead. Those days broke her heart. Those days, he constantly asked her where their friends were. Those days, she forced herself to hold in her tears, and told him that perhaps they’d come tomorrow...and prayed that he would be any Ritchie except that one the next day.)

But she couldn’t be at St Mungo’s tonight.

She wasn’t allowed to be.

The Healers had kicked her out, forbidding her from sitting beside Ritchie’s bed till the very end of visiting hours. Her Mind Healer had urged, no, ordered, her to go to Hermione’s party, insisting that she would only harm herself by spending all her time in the ward, insisting that refusing to do anything else was harming her and Ritchie.

So somehow, she had agreed to go.

Demelza sighed.

Going to the party would be like going into battle.

Perhaps that’s why she’d chosen to be Eowyn, the White Lady of Rohan, slayer of the Witch-King, a fearless Shieldmaiden.

She, having been raised in a wizarding family, had never heard of _The Lord of the Rings_.

Colin had loved Tolkein’s work, though, and he’d always, always urged her to read them.

She had never had the time.

But after he was gone...After he was gone, she had found the time. She’d had this immense urge to read those long, long books, and when she’d asked Colin’s mother where she could obtain copies, the Creeveys had gifted her Colin’s own.

And so, she’d read.

She fell in love with Middle-Earth, either despite her love for Colin and its resulting grief, or because of her love for Colin and its resulting grief.

It didn’t really matter.

Tonight, Demelza faced a battle. And her courage was spent. She had no more to go on, no more of that famous lion’s bravery.

She put on her helmet, and steeled her mind.

She had no more courage, but the Lady Eowyn had plenty.

She would borrow hers for the night.

And perhaps longer.


	3. A Friendly Chat (August 1998)

Three loud knocks at the front door of his, Anthony and Michael’s shared flat interrupt Terry’s reading.

He walks quietly to the door, wand at the ready.

(It’s only just over three months since the Final Battle, a little paranoia is perfectly normal.)

He looks through the peephole, to see Harry Potter on the other side.

He quickly opens the door.

‘Good evening, Harry. I’m afraid you’ve just missed Mike, he’s gone to meet Cho.’

The other young man runs a hand through his hair, smiling awkwardly.

‘Hi, Terry. Umm...err...actually, I wanted to speak to you, not Mike.’

Terry raises an eyebrow.

‘Come on in, then.’

He leads Harry to their dining table, and waves his wand. Two Butterbeers fly towards them, landing neatly on the table before them.

Harry smiles as he opens his and takes a swig.

‘I haven’t had Butterbeer in ages.’

Terry inclines his head.

‘I know. You would not have had many opportunities for Butterbeer this past year.’

Harry nods.

‘Yeah...So, erm, how were your NEWTs?’

Terry smiles.

‘I’m glad to have finished them at last. My results are not due until next week, but I’ve essentially been hired by the Office of Prosecutions, so I have been reading up on laws and procedures for filing charges.’

He gestures towards the pile of books he’d been studying when Harry had knocked on the door.

‘Congratulations.’

‘Thanks. As you know, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is very desperate for wands right now; I did my interview literally five days after I did my NEWTs, and only two days after I sent in my application!’

Harry takes another drink from his Butterbeer.

‘We’re going to need all the help we can get...there’s a lot of hard work still ahead of us.’

He looks tired, far older than his eighteen years.

‘Indeed. But you didn’t come here to discuss the road ahead with the Office of Prosecution’s latest hire. What do you want to know and who do you want to know about?’

Harry puts down his Butterbeer suddenly, making a loud clunking sound.

‘Bloody hell, you’re good! And to think I didn’t believe Mike when he said you were a stalker...How do you do it?’

Terry simply took a sip of his.

‘It is not that difficult. One can learn a lot by keeping their eyes and ears open and using logic. For example, you have come to my home to speak to me. That would be a most irregular thing to do just to have a chat with an acquaintance, particularly considering how busy you are yourself.  So you have a strong motive for being here. You are obviously not here for work. I am not undergoing Auror training and you did not know about my new job until I told you.  Asking for a favour is unlikely, considering how many people will do near anything for you. Therefore, the only possible reason left is that you wish to ask me something, something that you think only I can answer. It’s not about something factual; you could always look that up or ask Hermione Granger. Considering my reputation as someone who knows everything about everyone, and the fact that you associate with Mike, who often calls me a stalker, you want to know something about someone. That’s the only logical conclusion.’

Harry gapes at him.

‘Are you sure you won’t consider becoming an Auror and joining the Investigative Department? You’re like Sherlock Holmes!’

Terry smiles.

‘I’m not interested in becoming an Auror, Harry. And I assure you, I have few things in common with Mr Holmes; I’m not a Victorian Era detective and I don’t play the violin for starters.’

Harry laughs.

‘Fair enough.’

His face turns serious, and he continues.

‘Look, I know a lot of the DA are struggling since the War. I know a lot of them need help, need support, and I want to help them. I’ve been feeling kind of guilty since it’s been three months, and I hadn’t even tried earlier...’

Terry shakes his head.

‘Don’t. You’re dealing with your own issues, and your own close friends need your support to deal with theirs. Besides, you’re trying now, and that’s enough.’

He smiles wanly.

‘Thanks, Terry...The problem is, to be honest, I don’t know who needs help the most, who’s struggling the most...I wasn’t there last year, and I was occupied during the battle and these past few months...so I was hoping you’d tell me who in the DA needs me the most.’

Terry nods.

‘Of course. You would already know about George, Lavender and Dean, but few know that Parvati and Seamus are doing almost as badly. They’re essentially holding Dean and Lavender together, despite their own problems.’

‘Seamus was beaten up really badly by the Carrows, wasn’t he?’

Terry takes a sip of his Butterbeer.

‘He was hurt nearly as badly as Mike was, and Mike nearly died. Parvati was the one who found Lavender during the ceasefire...’

He didn’t need to finish that sentence. They both knew how terribly that must have affected her.

‘I...I didn’t even know that...’

Terry grabs his arm.

‘Do not beat yourself up for it. You were not there for most last year. You cannot possibly know what happened to all the DA last year. You are asking so that you can help now, and that is more than what should be asked of you.’

Harry nods slowly.

‘Who...who else?’

‘I have my concerns about Mike, but you would know that.’

Harry smiles sadly.

 ‘ _Anyone_ can see that.’

Michael isn’t one to keep his feelings bottled up inside.

‘Susan Bones is another one who’s struggling. She lost a lot of family during the War, as you know, and went through everything else we did. On top of that, she’s caught in a very complicated situation with Ernie and Justin.’

Harry looks puzzled.

‘Complicated in what sense?’

Terry sighs.

‘Well, Justin and Susan have been together for quite some time, but as you know, he spent last year on the run and in hiding, and like a lot of other Muggleborns, his mental state is not great right now. However, last year, Susan and Ernie became very close...’

‘Oh. That is complicated.’

Terry nods.

‘Yes, yes it is.’

‘Is there anyone else I should know about?’

‘No one in the original DA. But it would be good if you could try getting through to Demelza Robins. With Colin Creevey and Jimmy Peakes dead, and Ritchie Coote in a coma because of a curse or curses the Healers can’t even identify, let alone break, she’s lost her boyfriend and one of her best friends permanently, and another close friend of hers might never wake up. Hannah, Ernie, Padma and I have all tried to get through to her, but she’s not opening up. You were her Housemate and teammate, so she may be more inclined to let you in. You also knew Colin better than any of us did.’

Harry puts his head in his hands.

‘None of them should even have been at the battle...They were all underage, weren’t they?’

Terry nods.

‘Yes, but I don’t think anyone could have stopped them from fighting. They were Gryffindors through and through.’

They sit in silence for a minute.

Harry drains his Butterbeer and stands.

‘Thanks a lot, Terry. If you ever need a favour...’

The other young man smiles.

‘You do not owe me anything, Harry, except perhaps a Butterbeer.’


	4. Valentine's Day (February, 2003)

Justin sighed, and took another long draught of his beer.

He needed it.

Valentine’s Day. A day for loved-up couples around the world to canoodle, buy gifts, send flowers and generally be sappy and romantic.

And that was okay. He didn’t have any problem with it.

At least, he wouldn’t have if he wasn’t all alone today.

It was hard, he thought, to get through today without throwing something.

He hadn’t always been like this.

When he was young (perhaps he still was, he was only twenty-three, but he hadn’t felt it since what should have been his Seventh Year) he hadn’t actually cared much about it.

Then...then he and Susan had gotten together, and suddenly it was one of the most important dates in the world.

But now he didn’t have Susan anymore. They weren’t together anymore, and God he missed her.

He loved her. Still.

It hurt him every day, but today was the worst. Always the worst. An entire day celebrating happy couples. Reminders everywhere he looked.

He sighed and took a deep breath. And another draught of beer.

She and Ernie were together now. And they were happy.

And he was happy for them. Genuinely, he was happy for them.

Not just because she was happy, and he wanted her to be happy, but he was happy for Ernie, too. He was happy for them because they were his friends.

He wasn’t sure if they knew that he still loved her.

He was determined that they’d never find out. He was determined that it wouldn’t affect their friendship. He would always be there for them, no matter what.

He’d stand by Ernie as his Best Man when he married Susan, no matter his feelings for her.  He’d be godfather to their children, even if he desperately wanted them to be his.

He would.

But today, today he’d left himself be sad. Today, he’d let himself mope. Today, he’d let out the tiniest bits of resentment he had towards Ernie.

Then tomorrow, he’d put all of those feelings behind him, and be the loyal friend he was.

* * *

Padma sat on the couch, reading _Murder in Mesopotamia._ (Over her time at Hogwarts, and the last few years, she’d been introduced to Muggle Literature. Her current love for Muggle mysteries could be attributed to Terry. He was a half-blood, as were both his parents, but all the Boots had a deeply-held love of Muggle literature, thanks to their Muggle ancestors.)

It was already 7:45 pm, but she didn’t expect Terry to be home for at least another half an hour.

It was Valentine’s Day, and he’d volunteered to cover for the other workers in the Office of Prosecutions, since almost all of them had plans.

She wasn’t resentful or upset or anything. (Though according to Michael and Lavender and Parvati she should be.)

It was the logical thing to do, and the right thing to do after all.

She and Terry didn’t really celebrate Valentine’s Day, they didn’t really see the value. A whole day devoted solely to bold and frankly somewhat ludicrous declarations of love? Not for them; they both preferred the little things, the daily things, a comforting squeeze of the other’s hand, a hot dinner waiting when one of them got home from working late, a back rub or a shoulder massage, a few whispered words to elicit a smile and a laugh, or the bringing home of some favourite food, a little treat, picked up on the way home from St Mungo’s or the Ministry.

Finally, at 8:20, the door opened, and a rather tired-looking Terry entered.

Padma smiled at him.

‘Dinner’s all ready, it’s on the table. We’re having biryani and salad.’

He grinned back.

 ‘Sounds wonderful, Pad. Thank you very much. I apologize for being home so late; I wanted to leave earlier...’

‘But duty calls. I know. I understand.’

His grin grew wider, and he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

‘I knew I love you for a reason.’

He reached into his bag, and pulled out a tub of chocolate chip peppermint ice-cream, kept frozen by a stasis charm.

Padma grinned.

‘And I knew there was a reason I love you too!’

He raised an eyebrow, smiling.

‘Only because I bring you ice-cream? I’m hurt, Pad!’

She slapped his arm lightly.

‘Well, I can’t deny that is a factor, can I? But you know better.’

He slipped an arm around her shoulders.

‘Yes, yes I do.’

* * *

Michael Corner hummed to himself, smiling as he styled his hair so that it was mussed up just-so.

Tonight, he was going to see the woman he loved.

His brow furrowed slightly.

_What as her name again?_

What had he told the florist to change the name to? (She’d been very judgemental about that. She’d actually glared at him when he went in to change the delivery of twelve long-stemmed red roses from his former love to his new one. So what if he’d broken up with his girlfriend the week before Valentine’s Day, only three days after ordering roses for her? So what if he had to go change the name for the order three days later? Love was love. He had no control over it.)

He sprayed some cologne on.

Ah, right. Marissa. Her name was Marissa.

Grinning at his reflection, he headed off to meet his love.

* * *

They couldn’t go out to dinner tonight, not to any fancy restaurant in Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade. Not even to anywhere like the Leaky Cauldron or the Three Broomsticks or even the Hog’s Head.

Never mind that it was Valentine’s Day, they couldn’t go out anywhere in the Wizarding world on any night without being utterly mobbed.

Harry Potter, the Man-Who-Lived, and his Holyhead Harpies girlfriend?

They were the centre of attention pretty much everywhere they went.

Well, definitely not here, at least.

They were in the middle of a moor, in the middle of nowhere. No Muggles, no wizards, no dwellings or lights in sight.

Only each other.

Ginny took a deep breath, feeling the night air in her lungs, glancing at Harry.

And she wouldn’t have it any other way.

With a mischievous smile at her fiancé, she mounted her broom.

‘Bet you can’t catch me.’

She took off.

Harry grinned, mounting his own broom.

‘Don’t be so sure!’

* * *

Hannah Abbott groaned, rubbing at a particularly sore spot on her left shoulder.

Today had been a long, long day. It was Valentine’s Day after all. There were happy couples visiting the Alley or having dinner, the regulars who came rain or shine, and, of course, the depressed and heartbroken and lonely keen to drown their sorrows in alcohol.

And it wasn’t over yet.

Not nearly over.

In fact, the Leaky was about the experience the after-dinner rush.

She steeled herself. There was work to be done, and she’d never been a shirker.

Hannah exited the bathroom, and returned to the bar.

Fifteen Firewhiskies, fourteen Butterbeers, and a handful of cocktails later, she felt a hand on her shoulder.

‘Can you get away for a few minutes?’

She turned around, smiling at her boyfriend.

‘Well...as you can see, we’re rather busy...’ She grinned. ‘But, I can spare a moment for you, like always.’

Neville smiled and grabbed her hand, leading her through the kitchen, out of the Leaky into the little patch of garden behind. (It had once been just a mess of weeds and cobblestones, but after a couple of months of Neville’s weekend projects, it was now a garden to be proud of.)

However, Hannah noticed a new addition.

A beautiful rosebush stood proudly in a pot tied with a pink ribbon, yellow-red flowers in bloom.

Neville wrapped his arms around her waist.

‘Happy Valentine’s Day, Hannah. Do...do you like it? I bred it myself...Yellow and red, for Hufflepuff and Gryffindor...’

He looked so scared, so doubtful and unsure.

Hannah wiped the tears from her eyes, and kissed him softly on the cheek.

‘I love it, Nev. I love _you_. Don’t you ever, ever doubt that, Neville Longbottom.’

* * *

Demelza Robbins trudged through the cemetery, a bunch of bright red roses in hand, an issue of _Quidditch Weekly_ in the other.

Reaching her destination, she stopped, and bent down to place the magazine on one of the graves before her.

‘Well, you were never much of a romantic, but enjoy the magazine, Jimmy.’

She turned to the adjacent grave, placing the roses tenderly before it.

‘Happy...Happy Valentine’s Day, Colin.’

She kissed the palm of her hand, pressing it against Colin’s gravestone.

A moment later, blinking back tears, she turned around, preparing to Apparate.

Valentine’s Day was no excuse to not visit Ritchie. Besides, he’d always loved chocolate.


	5. Employment (May 1999- December 2001)

No-one understands why she wants to do it.

The Healers say _you’re not ready, you’re not strong enough, you’re not well enough..._

But she is, really. Well, physically anyway. Her wounds have closed, and all she’s got left are these ugly, ugly scars that have destroyed her beauty...She is well enough to work, thank you very much. Sitting around certainly hasn’t helped her.

Her parents say _don’t worry about it, we’re happy to support you..._

And yes, they truly are, because she’s their daughter that they love so, so much, who’s been through so much, she’s a war heroine and she’s barely out of her teens. But she can’t stomach the idea of living with her parents forever, and relying on them forever, like some child, because she isn’t.

Her childhood was lost in her 7th Year, and it died along with Colin Creevey and all the others.

Seamus says _I’ll look after you, I promise I will. You need to focus on getting better..._

But she doesn’t want to be dependent on him, either. Oh, she loves Seamus, she loves him so, so much, and he’s been so good to her and for some reason, he still loves her despite her ugliness.

Besides, she notes with some bitterness, he doesn’t ever say anything about Dean starting painting again, and anyone can see that he’s going to be an artist.

And Seamus doesn’t really have the means to support her, not really. He probably would have taken up Minister Shacklebolt’s offer and become an Auror, but he was far too concerned with her and Dean and helping them get better to do so. And he’s always been gifted with explosions, and frankly, enjoyed them a little too much, so working with George Weasley at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes simply made sense. George pays him decently, no question about that, but not quite enough to support them both comfortably.

And the Ministry pays her some kind of pension, for those who were badly injured or widowed or orphaned by the War.

She doesn’t touch it. She won’t, if she can avoid it.

It’s not that she’s ungrateful. (Because she is, to Minister Shacklebolt, Percy Weasley, Thomas and Terry Boot, and everyone else at the Ministry, and out of it, who got the War Pensions and Compensation Act through the Wizengamot.)

It’s because she just doesn’t want to use it.

Lavender doesn’t want to be an invalid, a victim for the rest of her life.

Hell, she feels like it most days. And God knows she’ll always look like it. ( _Scarred, ugly, defective.)_

But she was a Gryffindor for a reason, and she’s got a fighting spirit. (That’s what saved her, the Healers say.)

Lavender is going to look after herself.

Lavender is going to get a job.

* * *

It’s not as easy as she thought it would be.

It’s hard finding work, apparently because she’s not got her NEWTs. (Lavender knows that Padma thinks she should have arranged to do her exams, or go back to Hogwarts. But she can’t stomach the idea of going back or of having to study again, not after everything that’s happened.)

But she’s always got a sneaking suspicion that it’s more to do with the scars on her face and tracing her body. ( _And that sneaking suspicion makes her cry for hours into Seamus’ chest or Vati’s shoulder or one of Padma’s blue handkerchiefs, or even, once, three boxes of tissues conjured by Terry Boot when he found her sobbing in a corner of Diagon Alley.)_

But eventually she gets herself a job, in a little Wizarding cafe attached to the Ministry.

She’s happy there, for a while, but eventually, she can’t take any more of the stares and looks of pity, and even worse, disgust that she gets more frequently than she really should.

Oh, some people are absolutely lovely, make no mistake.

Michael Corner always gives her a grin, and a hug if she’s looking particularly down.

Susan Bones and Ernie Macmillan always greet her with broad smiles and, if she’s on a break, shout her hot chocolate and a piece of cake.

Even Anthony Goldstein manages a shy smile and wave whenever he’s there.

Vati, of course, grins and literally drags her onto a break to have a gossip session, during which they both try to pretend that everything’s just like it was.

Minister Shacklebolt and Percy Weasley are always polite, never stare, and give her nods of acknowledgement and cordial ‘good mornings’ or ‘good afternoons’ or ‘good evenings’.

Arthur Weasley smiles fondly, and sometimes starts talking to her about planes and rubber ducks.

Terry Boot always has a nod of greeting and a little compliment for her. ( _You look beautiful, the purple really suits your skin tone, you look radiant today, you have a lovely smile- you should smile more often)_ If she didn’t know him better ( _didn’t know that this is his way of showing he cares and helping his friends),_ didn’t know about his relationship with Padma, she would have sworn that he was flirting with her.

And his father, Thomas, is frankly the nicest Slytherin she’s ever met. (Sure, Professor Snape was a hero, but he was never _nice.)_ He’s polite and never stares, and always takes his time to sweep his (cold, stoic and seriously intimidating- she can see the resemblance between him and his son) gaze over the patrons whose looks and comments trouble her. (And, she heard from Vati, that man from the Department of International Magical Cooperation, the one who  called her a _halfbreed whore,_ found all of his expenses claims being audited and himself being posted to the Siberian consulate.)

But in the end, it’s all too much, and so she quits, three and a half months later.

* * *

Her next job is as a waitress in a cafe in Muggle London.

At least the Muggles don’t stare at her with so much pity and disgust. ( _They don’t who she is, don’t know she’s Lavender Brown, war heroine, Greyback victim, and don’t know what happened to her.)_

It’s better, for a while, but after a few months, her boss tells her he’s got to let her go.

She can’t work around the time of the full moon ( _she always feels so sick, so moody, as if there’s something wild inside her trying to claw its way out)_ , so she’s always had to call in sick those days.

Wizards, obviously, know and understand.

Muggles don’t.

And so she finds herself unemployed again. ( _And crying into Seamus yet again.)_

* * *

It’s a while before she can find another job.

But in the end, she takes up Seamus’ offer that he’ll try to get her a job at the shop.

Well, sort of.

She walks up to George and asks for the job herself. (Without telling Seamus.)

And she gets it.

( _Maybe because she dates one of his workers, or maybe because Angelina put a hand on his shoulder and nodded when she asked, or maybe because she’s DA like him, or because she’s scarred and broken just like him, or because she used to date his little brother and he wants prime teasing material, or maybe, just maybe, is because she’s a good worker and great at selling things. She was always good at getting her way and charming people...or at least she was, when she was pretty.)_

Working at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes is the best job she’s ever had.

( _Okay, the competition wasn’t stiff, but still.)_

She finds herself happier and laughing more than she has for what feels like years. ( _And, with a jolt, she realizes it has been years.)_

And, for some reason, she finds herself getting fewer stares and looks of disgust and pity.

( _Maybe she’s getting better at Glamours, or maybe the new Glamours and magical makeup that Vati, Padma and Terry made her for Christmas work better, or maybe the shop is too full of distractions, or maybe children really judge and care less, or maybe her scars are doing the impossible and fading, or maybe, just maybe, she’s becoming beautiful again._

_Not beautiful like she used to be, that’s impossible. But beautiful in another way. Some sort of inner radiance, some inner joy and happiness, confidence that makes her look pretty and helps to hide her scars.)_

She starts feeling that way only weeks into working at the shop, and honestly, the feeling grows over time.

She feels beautiful again. She is beautiful again. She is Lavender Brown, and she is strong, beautiful, independent, capable, useful and employed.

And that’s why she hesitates.

She pauses, standing outside the door of the storeroom that George calls his office.

She was going to tell him that she intends to quit at the end of the month.

But now she is not sure she can do it.

Working at his shop has improved her life and her confidence so, so much.

If she leaves...what if it disappears?

She shakes her head, banishing those thoughts.

That’s ridiculous. She has light and love in her life. Plenty of it. She’s got Seamus, wonderful, wonderful Seamus, Vati, Dean, her parents, and she’d never thought she’d say it, but Padma too. And Terry, Anthony, Michael, Susan, Ernie, Hannah, Justin, Neville, Harry, Hermione, Ron, Ginny, George, Angelina and so many others.

She has friends, and she is loved. Both by others, and herself. (Most importantly.)

Besides, she’s going to work with Vati. They’re going to have their own robe shop.

That’s been their dream, ever since they were eleven years old and wide-eyed, innocent, pretty little First Years.

Lavender Brown isn’t that little girl anymore.

But Lavender Brown is still pretty.

And she’s also strong, brave, capable, useful, independent and employed.

(And she’s going to stay that way.)


	6. Beauty (May 2003)

‘Lav! Guess what?’

Parvati ran into the little room they used as an office at the back of their shop.

The curly-haired woman thought for a moment.

‘You’re pregnant.’

Her friend rolled her eyes.

‘No, Lav. Honestly, ever since I got married...It’s only been a month, you know!’

Lavender raised an eyebrow.

‘Once _is_ enough.’

Parvati shook her head in mock exasperation.

‘ _Witch Weekly_ ’s special edition is here!’

Lavender grinned.

_Witch Weekly_ had asked them to do a spread for their May special edition- something about an edition all about what happened to the war heroes.

Obviously, they had accepted.

(Hey, it was free publicity, from their favourite magazine.)

So, they’d organized a photo-shoot, similar to the ones that they used for their advertisements and catalogues.

Normally, they used Wizarding models to display their robes, and took moving Wizarding photographs. That way, customers could ask the models to move, so they could see the robes from every angle.

But this time, they decided to do something a little different.

They’d used Muggle photography, done by Dennis Creevey, of course. (Because, frankly, Muggle photographs were much more dramatic. Unlike Wizarding photographs, they could capture just a tiny, tiny moment, exactly the way you wanted it.)

They’d gone and asked their friends, their DA friends, their war hero friends, to model instead.

Frankly, none of them were as supposedly beautiful or as handsome as any of the models they normally used.

They expected to get some criticism for that, from the ignorant or the fashion snobs or the just plain mean.

But, Lavender had thought, as she’d looked into the mirror one morning, applying her magical makeup and Glamours to her scarred face, the definition of beauty was so stupidly narrow.

It had been so hard for her to feel beautiful again, and many days it still was, after what happened.

It was time to try and change things. To celebrate another kind of beauty.

And so they had done it anyway.

Parvati dragged Lavender over to the desk in the centre of the room, and excitedly opened up the magazine, turning to their six-page spread.

The first page bore a photograph taken in front of a plain silver-grey background. Padma, her back to the camera; hair brushed simply over one shoulder, in backless unadorned purple robes, the burn scars that covered her back clearly visible. Terry stood in the foreground, in classically-styled navy blue pinstriped robes, his head turned sharply to the right and his eyes on Padma, so that the faded remnant of a gash down his left cheekbone is there for all to see.

Across the bottom of the page, a caption read ‘ _There is beauty in simplicity.’_

Parvati and Lavender exchanged a grin. It was funny how the photo both captured their friends’ nature and was completely not them at the same time. ( _Padma would never wear anything backless, Terry would never stare at a woman in such a way, but simplicity is so Terry and Padma, that look on his face is such a Terry look, avoiding a camera is such a Padma thing to do...)_

Parvati turned the page.

Four young men in a lounge room of sorts. Anthony slouching in an armchair, in casual black robes, feet up on an ottoman, his prosthetic leg clearly visible. Michael, front and centre, slumping backwards into a sofa, dark green robes open at the front, showing off the myriad of scars that cover his chest. Ernie nursing a beer, one leg up on a chair so that his smart grey robes part to reveal the twisted, blackened state that some Dark curse left his leg in. And Justin, perched on the arm of Michael’s couch, his left hand resting on the front of his midnight blue business robes, so that it is obvious he is missing two fingers.

The two young women laugh.

Oh, how the _Witch Weekly_ girls had blushed and stared. It’s not every day that a witch gets to see four young war heroes in varying states of undress, particularly not members of the (apparently now legendary at Hogwarts) DA, two of which are Ministry officials (even though Anthony works for the Tax Office), an Auror and a successful businessman to boot.

Besides, they’re all handsome in their own way, thinks Lavender. (But not as handsome as Seamus.) Blue-eyed, blond haired and socially awkward Anthony is in a cute, adorable sense. Dark-haired Michael is the epitome of tall, dark and handsome. Strong-jawed, broad shouldered (and still slightly pompous) Ernie is just like those knights in fairytales, and noble-looking Justin is so like the prince or lord he might serve.

The caption across the top of the second page read ‘ _Beauty comes in many forms.’_

The third page is Parvati’s personal favourite.

They took it on the night of a full moon (Lavender, with the aid of some Wolfsbane, managed to drag herself there), in a deserted glade in a forest.

Luna is at the centre of the photo, in silvery-white sleeveless robes, made of some very light, floaty material. She’s wearing her usual radish earrings, and her feet are bare, a strange, trance-like look on her face. Her arms are raised towards the moon, and the wind has blown the hem of her robes up and in the moonlight, the intricate web of scars from her imprisonment almost seems to glow.

In the background, Dean sits with a sketchbook on his lap and a paintbrush in hand, in Muggle jeans with black and white chequered robes thrown over one shoulder, exposing the reminders of a year on the run for all to see.

In the right-hand corner: ‘ _Unconventional is beautiful.’_

The next photograph is a riot of colour compared to all the others.

It was taken in the middle of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, after hours, with some of their legendary fireworks flying around the shop.

There’s Seamus, laughing as he sets off another Wildfire Whiz-Bang, in vivid red robes, side-on, so that the crook in his nose (Lavender had to set it, and she’s never been much good at healing spells) is clearly visible.

George, in the middle of his shop, grinning as he whispers something into the ear of an invisible person exactly his height, not noticing as a firework singes the corner of his violently magenta robes, head slightly turned so that his lack of an ear is obvious.  (They didn’t pose him like that, not really. George still whispers into Fred’s ear all the time.) 

And Angelina, wearing sleeveless cream robes trimmed in gold, half-way through a twirl, a broad smile on her face, seemingly not caring that her arms are covered in snaking pale scars.

Across the bottom of the page: ‘ _Happiness makes you beautiful.’_

The fifth photograph is frankly and utterly adorable.

It’s taken in the homely living room of a red-brick cottage. Curled up on the couch, in pale blue robes is a heavily-pregnant Katie Bell. She’s grinning and looking directly at the camera, seemingly uncaring that half her face is blighted and blackened, her sight in one eye destroyed. Oliver Wood, still the handsome Quidditch star, sits beside her, one arm wrapped lovingly around her waist, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

This photo, they both know, is an F*** you to all those people who say _I can’t believe he’s married to a girl like that. I mean, he’s a fit Quidditch star, and she’s..._

The caption: ‘ _Beauty is in the eye of the beholder’._

And the last photo, that one is Lavender’s favourite.

It’s the two of them, posing like those models that they wanted to be like when they were younger.

Parvati wears shocking pink robes, so similar to the ones that she wore to the Yule Ball, so long ago. Her hair is scraped harshly back, her usual Glamour and makeup forsaken, to expose the pink scar that runs along her hairline, from the time Alecto Carrow got far too enthusiastic during a detention. (The time when she genuinely feared that the woman would cut her face off, because _she was far too pretty.)_

Lavender is in one of Parvati’s Indian-inspired designs, cut like a sari, her midriff bared, no Glamours and no makeup. Her scars, those angry reddish cursed scars, are not hidden in any way, shape or form.

But, as she looks at the photo, Lavender thinks she still looks beautiful.

_Beauty is forever._


	7. Art (March 2006)

Dean has always loved to draw. Back at Hogwarts, he’d liked doodling and working on little artistic projects. Sometimes, during the holidays, he’d paint as well.

After the war, it’d taken a long, long time before he’d felt like drawing or painting or doing any form of art.

Many people remembered (many more than he’d thought would) that he’d been artistically gifted. He had many requests to paint murals or make a sculpture for the memorial or for the rebuilt Hogwarts, or even to replace that horrible Magic is Might sculpture at the Ministry.

He turned them all down.

Frankly, whatever gift he had, he thought it was gone. Destroyed. Destroyed by that terrible, hellish year.

But, it turns out his artistry is more resilient than he gave it credit for.

Soon, soon he finds himself wanting to paint again.

(When he was younger, he preferred drawing. Now, he prefers painting, maybe because the feel of a paintbrush in his hand, the feel of slim, smooth, polished wood beneath his fingers, is more like a wand than a pencil could ever be. And he hates, hates being without a wand nowadays.)

The first few paintings are horrific. They are dreadful. They’re all swirls of dark colours, messy and wild and chaotic, interspersed with violent reds and vivid greens.

It’s his grief, his fear, his anger, his _feelings_ on canvas. (And painting them makes him feel so much better than anything his Mind Healer ever does.)

He goes and rents a Muggle storage locker, and hides them away when he’s done. He doesn’t want to ever see them again.

One day, when he’s cleaning out his bedroom, he drops a stack of sketchbooks. He picks up the nearest one, and opens it to the first page.

It’s a half-finished sketch of Parvati, in her Yule Ball dress robes. ( _She’d looked so beautiful that night... and he’d cursed himself, for not asking her, and that smarmy Beauxbatons git...just because.)_

A picture forms itself in his mind’s eye, and almost unconsciously, he begins a new painting.

Parvati absolutely loves it, his work of Fourth Year her in shocking pink. ( _Because she’s perfect and happy and pretty and scar-free, and maybe a teensy bit idealized.)_

But, to be honest, he loves the next painting he does more.

( _It’s of Parvati, of course, looking older and more weary, a scar down the side of her face, covered in dust and dirt, slumped against a Hogwarts wall. He thinks she’s even more beautiful in this one, because it shows her bravery, her courage and her fighting spirit. And she looks alive, mortal, human in this one, not like a painting, unlike the other.)_

And after that, art becomes as easy as breathing again.

(Well, okay, maybe not that easy. There is such a thing as artist’s block. But it’s as easy as it ever was, _as easy as it should be_ again.)

He paints a great many works, all sizes, shapes and colours.

A black-haired man with perpetually messy hair, round glasses and a lightning-bolt scar, kneeling, straining under the weight of a giant stone globe. (He calls that one _Atlas.)_

A beautiful, red-haired young woman on a horse, flying through the sky, a silver sword inlaid with rubies in her hand. ( _Valkyrie)_

A bushy-haired young woman in a room full of books, a blindfold over her eyes, a set of scales in one hand, and a heavy tome in the other. If one looks very, very carefully, they’ll see a stack of knobbly, poorly-knitted hats in the corner. (He calls it _SPEW,_ which befuddles the critics to no end.)

A tall, gangly, grinning red-head in a huge crowd of non-descript people, standing half a head above the rest, the only one with clear features on his face. ( _Above All)_

A sandy-haired young man with a bent nose, leaping down from a ledge, a handful of fire in one hand and a bottle of Firewhisky in the other. ( _Irish Courage)_

A pretty young woman with light-brown curls and a lavender headband, superimposed over a full moon. Depending on what angle you look at her, or how you look at her, sometimes she looks fearful, sometimes calm. ( _Once in a Purple Moon)_

A stocky red-haired man in front of a mirror. He has no reflection; it’s just an empty mirror. ( _Half of a Whole)_

A brown-haired man in silver-rimmed glasses and navy blue robes, a perfectly neutral expression on his face as he watches tiny people go about their lives in front of him. (This one’s called _The Observer,_ and it’s a little disconcerting to look at.)

A handsome, dark-haired young man kneeling on white marble, a gold collar around his neck. Holding the leash attached to the collar is an impossibly beautiful woman with an ethereal glow, two fingers tilting the chin of her pet to face her. ( _Aphrodite’s Plaything)_

A slightly round-faced young man, a smudge of dirt on his cheek, in a greenhouse full of plants, intent on caring for a Mimbulus Mimbletonia. If one looks closely, there’s also a Remberall, Gryffindor’s Sword, an Order of Merlin, First Class, the head of a dead snake and a galleon buried somewhere in the foliage. ( _Talking to Plants)_

A child-like young woman with straggly blond hair, in a bright yellow dress and blue and orange polka-dotted gumboots that look at least two sizes too big, standing in the middle of a creek in a rainstorm, raddish earrings in her ears and a content, trance-like look on her face. (He names it _Chocolate Gurdyroot Soup for Tea_ , because it was the weirdest thing totally irrelevant to the painting he could think of at the time.)

A dark-skinned young woman, in a blue and bronze dress, ink staining her fingers, standing on a balcony gazing out at the stars, a look of sheer curiosity and wonderment on her face, an owl and an eagle by her side. ( _The Daughter of the Eagle and the Owl)_

A blond haired, blue-eyed young man seated at a desk, attempting to put together an impossible-looking puzzle, a look of immense concentration on his face. ( _Order from Chaos)_

A young woman with long red hair in a plait down her back, looking resolute and determined, wand out, rising from darkness shrouded in mist, surrounded by ghosts, wispy, transparent outlines of people. ( _Skeletons Rising)_

A blond, slightly pink-faced young woman with her hair in pigtails, grinning while baking a cake, a little bit of flour on the end of her nose, surrounded by a gaggle of small children. ( _A Mother’s Strength)_

A noble-looking, brown-haired young man, half in wizards’ robes, half in a Muggle suit. The background is bisected in half, too, half a row of shops in Muggle London and half Diagon Alley. ( _To Walk Two Worlds)_

A pompous young man with broad shoulders and a strong jaw, standing on a broken piece of a column, giving a speech, rallying a crowd of tired and demoralized soldiers. ( _The Orator)_

 ...And, he is sure, many more to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the order of who the paintings are of, if anyone is a little confused:  
> Harry Potter, Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Seamus Finnegan, Lavender Brown, George Weasley, Terry Boot, Michael Corner, Neville Longbottom, Luna Lovegood, Padma Patil, Anthony Goldstein, Susan Bones, Hannah Abbott, Justin Finch-Fletchley and Ernie Macmillan.


	8. Paternity

'Ron, you know how we've been trying to have a baby...'

The redhead just nodded, mouth full of toast as he poured himself a glass of pumpkin juice.

'Well...'

He swallowed and pushed back his chair, standing up.

'What, Hermione?'

'I'm pregnant.'

Her husband froze, eyes staring blankly ahead.

Hermione sighed.

'I tried to break it to him gently...'

She waved her hand in front of his face.

'Ron? Ronald? Ronald Billius Weasley!'

He blinked, and managed to croak out a few words.

'A...baby?'

'Yes, Ron, a baby. We're going to be parents.'

Glass fragments and pumpkin juice suddenly covered the floor.

Ron had lost his grip on his drink.

'Honestly, Ronald!'

* * *

Harry Potter, the saviour of the Wizarding World, stood in the bathroom, holding his wife's red hair out of the way as she threw up her breakfast.

In between heaves, Ginny glared at him.

'This is all your fault.'

He really should have known better than to argue with her when she gave him that glare, but he's a Gryffindor, and a little foolishly brave.

'How is it my fault? What have I done?'

'Your child is making my stomach do Wronski Feints!'

Harry just stood there, mouth agape.

_Child? Ginny's going to be a mother? I'm going to be a father?_

For some reason, his mind began to drift to his mother telling his father of his impending birth, kneeling before the toilet, throwing up her oatmeal, just like Ginny was now...

And then he shook his head to clear the thought.

Thinking of his wife as his mother, or his mother as his wife was just plain disturbing.

Returning to the present, Harry decided to stop being stupidly brave for a moment, and not point out that Ginny's morning sickness was just as much her fault as it was his.

* * *

'Nev, I have something to tell you.'

The new Herbology Professor finished washing the dirt off his hands and shook them dry, turning to his wife and knocking the soap into the sink in the process.

'You might want to sit down before I tell you.'

He obediently flopped into the nearest chair, looking at her with concern and worry in his eyes.

'It's good news.’ She smiled. ‘We're going to be parents.'

He sat there, shocked for a moment, before jumping up and seizing her in a tight hug. (Knocking the chair over as he did so.)

Hannah whispered into his ear.

'I can't wait for little Frank or Alice to be born.'

He suddenly let go and stared at her.

She could see the tears in his eyes.

* * *

'...And there's a few nasty cases of Dragonpox going around, so the Healers on the Second Floor are very busy...'

'Then it's a good thing that your Ward is on the First, and you can keep your distance from the Dragonpox patients.'

'I've had it already, Terry.'

'I know, but our baby hasn't, and you know it can be dangerous for unborn children.'

The plate Padma was holding fell to the floor and shattered.

'You-you know?'

Terry repaired the plate with a flick of his wand.

'Yes. I've known for nearly three weeks now. I'm delighted, Pad, but as you didn't want to tell me, I didn't raise it. However, since I am rather sure that you're about three months along, I really couldn't wait any longer.'

He grinned, and took her hand.

Slowly, she smiled.

'I guess I should know better than to try and keep a secret from you... I'm sorry, I should have told you earlier, but I wanted to wait until after twelve weeks, when the chance of miscarrying is lower...and just so you know, not only have I been giving the Dragonpox cases a wide berth, I've also been taking periodic doses of the Dragonpox potions.'

'Excellent, and very clever of you, Pad. And before you ask, you've missed three periods, and you've been nauseous every morning for the past four weeks.'

* * *

'No...no...Ted...Dirk...please...no wand...my father...'

Dean thrashed around, throwing the covers off.

Parvati was instantly awake, and immediately took one of his hands in hers, trying to soothe him.

'It's okay, Dean, it's only a nightmare. You're safe, everyone's safe,Vol-Voldemort's dead, we won. The war's been over for years, it's all over. You're in bed, in your own house, with Parvati, your wife.'

He screamed.

'No...Vati...Ma...please not them...little sisters...Shay...Lav...no!'

'You're safe, Dean. Your family, your mother, your sisters, they're all safe. Lavender, Seamus, they're all safe. I'm safe.'

He continued to writhe in his sleep, trapped in his own mind.

'Life isn't like that anymore, Dean. You don't have to run anymore. You're not in danger anymore. You've grown up, and gotten married, and you're going to be a father soon. I'm carrying your babies.'

He ceased his tortured movements, becoming still. His eyes opened slightly.

'Babies, Vati?'

She smiled.

'Yes, twins.'

'Twins...'

He turned over, pulling her close to him, a hand resting on her stomach, and slept well through the rest of the night.


	9. Business and Pleasure (2005-2006)

Justin Finch-Fletchley adjusted the collar of his suit-robes. (They were a lovely invention, by Patil and Brown Robes. With just a simple tap of his wand and an incantation, they immediately turned into a well-cut suit, no need for Transfiguration. Which was great, as it was his worst subject at Hogwarts.)

Satisfied, he sat back down at his desk in his office to await the arrival of the next job candidate.

It was pretty crazy, actually, that he was even holding job interviews in the first place.

He didn’t intend on becoming a businessman. He certainly never intended on running the Wizarding world’s only business _bringing the best of the Muggle world to wizards,_ as the company motto stated. He definitely never thought he’d be one of the most successful businessmen in Wizarding Britain before he was thirty.

But he had, and now he was CEO of his very own company, employing seventy-eight full time staff, and one of the fifteen largest companies in Wizarding Britain.

It had started out small, that’s for sure.

It was during Ernie’s rehabilitation from an injury sustained in the Battle of Hogwarts that he discovered wizards didn’t know about physiotherapy.

(Which was frankly ridiculous, because for an injury like Ernie’s, one that had debilitated and damaged his leg, physiotherapy was the best thing for it. Then again, wizards rarely sustained such wounds...)

So, of course, he had arranged physiotherapy for his best friend, with the very discrete physiotherapist who had treated his father. (And he’d made sure that Ernie had a couple of Glamours on his leg, and went with him, and instructed him on what to say. They had to be careful not to break the International Statute of Secrecy, after all.)

Then, he’d been bombarded with requests from others hurt in the Battle if he could arrange some for them, and so he’d done it. (Free of charge, of course.)

A couple of months later, just before he went back to Hogwarts, Anthony Goldstein started talking to him about Muggle prostheses. He didn’t want to have to walk around for the rest of his life with one of the clunky magical metal and wood ones, even if it was charmed with a Featherlight Charm. He’d read that Muggles could make much lighter, more streamlined and realistic ones using plastic and all sorts of other wondrous materials.

And, while there was a little slowdown while he was doing his 7th Year, it snowballed from there.

He kept hearing about gaps in Wizarding markets, and finding ways to fill those gaps using Muggle inventions and goods, using his father and grandfather’s web of contacts now and then to help. And somehow, along the way, he started making money from it.

He started finding these gaps for himself, and eventually, he could see business opportunities everywhere.

Literature, fiction, in the Wizarding world was sadly lacking. There were few good Wizarding novels out there. Some wizards read Muggle literature, but it could be a little tricky to obtain, and there were some things in Muggle literature that just confused magical folk. Hence, he started importing Muggle books, and attached little glossaries to them to explain the confusing bits.

That led into his next enterprise, a series of short, practical books for wizards about Muggles. (Because, while Muggle Studies was interesting for some, reading thick books on the home life and social habits of British Muggles wasn’t something your average wizard wanted to do. Besides, it wasn’t all that helpful either...) _How to Dress Like a Muggle, How to Cook Like a Muggle, How to Talk Like a Muggle, How to Make Friends With Muggles, How to Camp Like a Muggle, The Wizard’s Guide to Muggle Sports, The Wizard’s Guide to Muggle Popular Culture..._ Somehow, they all made the best-sellers’ list. (Perhaps there were lots of closet Arthur Weasleys out there. Or perhaps after the War, people wanted to be seen as Muggle-friendly.)

Then there was importing Muggle foods and clothes into the Wizarding world, selling them in little shops in Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade. (Turns out there were lots of Muggleborns who simply couldn’t make it to Muggle shops as well as Wizarding ones, and missed some of the little things about the Muggle world. Like pot noodles, or Frazzles. He certainly did.)

And it just kept going and going and going...

And now here he was, in July of 2005, seven years after the war, running a highly successful business, about to expand.

He’s creating a Research Division, because it’s about time wizards benefit from things that rely on electricity, like televisions and computers and the internet. He’s no scientist or researcher, but he’s sure it can be done. There’s got to be some way to adapt Muggle technology so that it can be used when there’s a lot of magic in the environment.

(He knows that slightly less complicated things, like telephones, can work when there’s a few magical folk around. But his goal is to get computers working and the internet up at Hogwarts. Though, Professor McGonagall might never forgive him for that...)

And then there was a knock on his door.

That was his next job candidate, here to do her interview for a researcher position.

‘Come in.’

A very young blond woman walked in. She looked only eighteen, probably fresh out of Hogwarts.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Finch-Fletchley.’

She shook his proffered hand firmly.

‘I’m Rebecca Goldstein.’

He smiled at her.

 **‘** Anthony’s sister, right? I think I remember your Sorting...Ravenclaw, am I correct?’

She nodded.

‘On both counts.’

‘Well, take a seat, Miss Goldstein. Now, why are you interested in working here?’

* * *

Six months later, Justin leant back in his chair, letting out a sigh of contentment.

His Research Division was up and running, and making good progress.

(Now, if he could lure Terry Boot away from the Office of Prosecutions...but he knows a lost cause when he sees one. He’ll settle for the fact that he sometimes gives Rebecca suggestions.)

And yes, she’s Rebecca now, not Miss Goldstein.

She’s an absolutely wonderful young woman, kind, intelligent, sweet, witty and beautiful. And, if he’s honest to himself, she’d manage to raise feelings in him that he’d thought he’d never feel for anyone except Susan.

He paused for a second, wondering if Anthony would skin him alive if he asked his little sister out for dinner. She was only nineteen, and he was almost twenty-seven.

He shook his head, and smiled.

The man was DA, they were comrades... he probably wouldn’t kill him.

 Besides, hopefully (if she said yes) it’d be worth it.

* * *

God, he had it bad.


	10. Meet the Parents

Neville wiped his brow with his handkerchief, visibly shaking.

Hannah squeezed his hand gently, smiling.

‘It’ll be fine, Nev. Don’t worry.’

He took a deep breath, and pushed open the door to the Janus Thickey Ward.

He led her over to the two curtained-off beds in the corner, grinning at its occupants.

‘Hi Mum. Hi Dad.’

He gestured at Hannah.

‘This is Hannah, the girl I’ve been telling you about.’

She smiled at her boyfriend’s parents.

‘It’s lovely to meet you, Mr and Mrs Longbottom.’

They simply stared at her blankly.

Neville swallowed, and turned away briefly.

Hannah’s smile didn’t falter, and she reached into her pocket, drawing out a packet of Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum.

‘I brought you a present. I know it’s not much, but Neville’s told me how much you like it.’

She handed it to Alice Longbottom, whose face immediately broke into a grin.

Neville turned to Hannah, a shaky smile on his face. He kissed her softly on the forehead.

‘You’re wonderful.’

His voice was hoarse and thick with emotion.

Hannah simply smiled back at him.

‘So are you and your parents.’

The young couple spent two hours in the ward. Neville told his parents about his latest project, and Hannah contributed a funny story or two from the happenings at the Leaky Cauldron while darning a hole in the colourful patchwork quilt Neville had bought for his father.

As they rose to leave, Alice Longbottom tapped her son on the shoulder, and dropped a Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum wrapper into his hand, just as she always had.

They had to blink back tears when she dropped one into Hannah’s hand too.

* * *

Terry and Padma stood on the doorstep of her childhood home. She raised a hand, and knocked firmly on the door.

Her mother opened the door, and immediately embraced her daughter.

Padma smiled.

‘Hello, Mahta.’

She gently released herself from her mother’s arms, and indicated the young man beside her.

‘This is Terry, Mahta.’

Terry smiled, and handed the bouquet of lilies he was carrying to his partner’s mother.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you at last, Mrs Patil.’

The older witch took them, looking slightly puzzled.

‘Did Padma tell you lilies were my favourite?’

 ‘Not explicitly, but in all the family photographs that she’s shown me, the only flowers ever in your home were lilies.’

Mrs Patil shook her head, grinning.

‘You are exactly as my daughters described you. Come in!’

They entered the house, which smelt vaguely of spices. Padma’s mother led them into the dining room, where her husband was sitting.

Mr Patil rose to greet them.

He, too, embraced Padma.

‘You look well, my little lotus blossom.’

Terry shook his hand firmly.

‘It’s lovely to meet you, Mr Patil.’

The Indian wizard simply stared coolly at him.

Terry met his gaze unwaveringly, without fear or hesitation.

After what felt like an eon to Padma, her father smiled.

‘Call me Rajesh, Terry.’

* * *

Justin sighed and shook his head, splashing his face with water.

He ran a hand through his hair, remembering the very cold reception he’d received from Becca’s parents.

Straightening up and tidying his hair, he recalled the very best charming gentleman’s manners that his father and grandfather had taught him.

He was determined to win his girlfriend’s parents over. Even if they frankly terrified him more than He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

He exited the bathroom, and almost bumped into Anthony, who was carrying plates from their dinner to the kitchen.

‘Oh, sorry, Justin!’

‘No problem, Anthony....’ He groaned. ‘Your parents hate me, don’t they?’

The other young man bit his lip.

‘Umm...well, yes...but don’t worry, they weren’t all too warm towards Lisa at first either...I’m sure they’ll warm up to you and the idea of you dating Becca eventually...I mean, well, I did...’

Justin sighed, slumping against the wall.

‘I don’t know, they think I’m too old for her, don’t they? And I’m not going to get any younger.’

Anthony shifted his weight awkwardly.

‘Well, Becca’s not getting any younger either...besides, once they get to know you better, and see how much you love her, I’m sure they’ll come to accept you, just like I did.’

Justin raised an eyebrow.

‘Because I’m such a great, charming guy?’

Anthony nodded.

‘And a great friend and loyal comrade. But, if you hurt my sister...’

‘You’ll kill me. I know.’

* * *

‘More sausages, Harry, dear? You’re looking very thin; they’re working you too hard at the Ministry...’

Harry grinned at his girlfriend’s mother, who was piling three or four sausages onto his plate.

‘Thanks, Mrs Weasley.’

‘Oh, no problem, dear...Percy, they’re overworking you too, even more than Arthur. You look like you haven’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks! Honestly, I think I’ll have to write to Kingsley...’

George sniggered.

‘I don’t think it’s the Ministry that’s keeping Perce awake, Mum. I think it’s Au-oof!’

A very red-eared Percy had _accidentally_ knocked his brother with his elbow while cutting up his steak-and-kidney pie.

‘Oops. Sorry, George.’

George responded by flinging spoonful of mashed potatoes at Percy.

‘George Fabian Weasley! Frederick Gideon Weasley! How many times do...’

Molly Weasley trailed off.

An uncomfortable silence fell around the Weasley dining table.

Molly recovered first.

‘More...more mash, Hermione? You haven’t been eating enough either, have you? Ronald, what did I tell you about letting Hermione skip meals to work?’

Ron swallowed his mouthful of food, and threw his cutlery-filled hands into the air indignantly.

‘Mum! It’s not my fault!’

His mother jabbed her wand at him.

‘No excuses, young man...’

Bill shook his head. His mother was never going to change. Even if they all weighed fifteen stone, she’d always think every member of her family was not eating enough.


	11. Las Vegas (June 2002- August 2002)

Seamus climbed onto a table, somewhat shakily.  He lifted his glass of Firewhiskey, and looked over the private room of the Leaky Cauldron, filled with the DA, before sending a small firecracker out of the end of his wand to catch their attention.

Everyone turned to face the (very drunk) Irishman.

‘We’ve never gotten to have any fun, have we? We had to get rid of Voldeshorts...I mean, Voldeport...Voldemort...and then we’ve spent the last four years fixing everything up...When was the last time any of us had a holiday, eh?’

‘6th Year!’

‘Never!’

(Harry was very, very drunk, but there was certainly truth in that statement.)

‘Last week!’

Alicia Spinnet elbowed Lee Jordan in the stomach, hard.

‘We’re not all Quidditch commentators, Jordan!’

Seamus shot another firecracker out of his wand.

‘And that, ladies and gentleman and everyone else, that is why I propose we go to Vegas!’

Everyone, even those who didn’t know what Vegas even was, burst into loud applause.

Standing in the quietest, least-crowded corner of the room, Hermione Granger, Terry Boot and Padma Patil (the only ones, apart from Hannah, who were not completely punch-drunk) turned to one another, concern etched on the women’s faces.

Padma spoke first.

‘Las Vegas? As in the city in the USA, the one that Muggles call Sin City? Is it wise to go there? I mean, I know we all deserve a holiday, but...’

Terry raised an eyebrow.

‘I am not informed enough to know whether going to Las Vegas would be wise, but I am certain that it is not wise to plan any sort of holiday while drunk.’

Hermione looked over at the gaggle of very excited young witches and wizards.

‘I don’t think we’re going to be able to stop them.’

The two Ravenclaws nodded in agreement.

Hermione looked down at her glass of elf-made wine.

‘Bugger it. If you can’t beat them, join them.’

And she downed the rest of her wine in one gulp, striding over to join the others.

* * *

Padma looked out of the window, at the dazzling bright lights that stretched out in front of her. In the distance, she could see the desert, yet there were elaborate fountains in this city. It was all very, very strange.

She turned around, looking around her and Terry’s hotel room, muttering to herself.

‘But not as strange as this whole Las Vegas trip even happening...’

Her partner laughed.

‘We saw many strange things at Hogwarts, Pad, but this is certainly one of the ten strangest things that I’ve ever witnessed.’

He glanced at the clock on the bedside table.

‘We’ll be late for dinner if we don’t leave now. And I’d hate to miss seeing a contender for my list of top ten strangest things.’

‘But you don’t even have a list of top ten strangest things!’

He raised an eyebrow, grinning.

‘You don’t know that for sure, Pad. Perhaps I’ve just never mentioned it.’

Padma shook her head, smiling, as they exited the room.

* * *

The DA was crowded around a very large table, all rather hungry for their dinner.

Two waitresses walked over, each bearing a huge plate with a comically large burger and fries. They proceeded to place them in front of Ernie and Ron.

A mildly exasperated Susan shook her head, smiling.

‘When you’re feeling very sick tonight, I am not staying up and looking after you...’

Ernie puffed out his chest, tucking a napkin into his shirt.

‘Only ten people have ever conquered this burger, they say, but I am Ernest Macmillan. I mean to say, we Macmillans have always been able to rise to a challenge!’

A very exasperated and long-suffering Hermione put her head in her hands.

‘Really, Ronald?’

Ron nodded enthusiastically, his mouth already full of food.

‘I’m hungry, Hermione!’

Luna cocked her head to the left, absent-mindedly popping a couple of her fries dipped into chocolate sauce in her mouth.

‘You know, Daddy used to tell me about how Blibbering Humdinger snot can make one very hungry indeed. Perhaps Ron and Ernie have been exposed.’

Padma smiled, delicately picking up some of the salad that accompanied her chicken burger (which was much, much smaller than Ron’s or Ernie’s) with a fork.

She glanced over at Terry, who was digging into his BBQ pork ribs with almost as much enthusiasm (but much better table manners) as Ron.

‘As good as pork chops?’

He considered for a moment, then nodded.

‘Yes.’

Anthony, sitting on the other side of Terry, shook his head in amazement.

‘Wow...I never thought I’d hear that! _Significant Muggle Cities_ was certainly accurate about the things that happen in Las Vegas!’

* * *

‘Please, Terry? With Toothflossing Stringmints and Peppermint Toads and pork chops and Padma on top?’

Terry raised an eyebrow at his very drunk Auror friend.

‘Mike, that does not even make any sense. Besides, generally, one places edible things on top of pleases, and I am not a cannibal. Furthermore, I do not think that pork chops go well with Peppermint Toads or Toothflossing Stringmints.’

Seamus slung an arm around Terry’s shoulders, winking.

‘Oh, come on, Terry, you know what he means! And you’ve got to play, at least one game!’

Dean grinned.

‘You’ve got the best poker face of us all!’

Terry sighed, looking around at Ernie, Justin, Michael, Anthony, Ron, Harry, Lee, George and Neville. They were all in various states of inebriation, and keen to try their luck on Muggle gambling. (Even Anthony, who was usually his ally in attempts to escape from illogical, ridiculous, pointless and potentially harmful activities.)

‘Fine. One game.’

He should have known those were famous last words.

When the men of the DA discovered his talent for the game (he did have an excellent poker face, and he had picked up quite a bit from watching Kevin teach half of Ravenclaw in Fifth Year), it all snowballed from there.

Safe to say, Padma was certainly very surprised when she entered the gaming area with the other DA females (Ginny and Alicia had insisted on a girls’ night out) to find him playing on the so-called top table.

She had been even more surprised to learn exactly how much he had won.

And even he had been surprised when he was offered a seat in a prestigious championship to be played the following day.

(He had turned it down, much to the chagrin of much of the DA. But one always had to know how to stop in relation to gambling. Besides, if he hadn’t already believed wholeheartedly in responsible gambling, after hearing Hermione admonishing Ron for losing far too much money, he would certainly be a convert.)

* * *

Hermione looked up from her chocolate ice-cream, worry clouding her eyes.

‘Where are George and Angelina?’

Her boyfriend shrugged, taking the opportunity to steal some of her ice-cream.

‘Ron! And this is serious! What if they got lost?’

He rolled his eyes, and wrapped an arm around her waist.

‘Relax, Hermione. They’re adults, they can look after themselves.’

Parvati, who was sitting on Dean’s lap and eating mango sorbet, stopped telling Lavender how unusually adorable Padma and Terry were being (they were sharing a large cup of chocolate chip peppermint ice-cream at a little table in the corner), and turned to face Hermione.

‘I think we lost them around the time we lost Neville and Hannah.’

(The Gryffindor had been very entranced by a particularly large arrangement of palm trees. Hannah had stayed behind to keep him out of trouble.)

Dean shook his head.

‘Nah, I’m pretty sure they weren’t with us when we left the Bellagio’s jumping fountain.’

‘They weren’t there at the Luxor.’

‘No, they were, remember?’

‘No, they weren’t!’

‘Yes, they were!’

‘No!’

‘Yes!’

‘No!’

Anthony and Michael were glaring daggers at each other.

Justin shook his head.

‘Getting lost in Vegas. They should make a movie about it.’

Ernie thumped his ice-cream cup back down on the table.

‘Well, we cannot allow the loss of two of our comrades to deter us, friends! Onwards!’

Susan sighed.

 She knew it hadn’t been a good idea for him to order whisky-flavoured ice-cream without checking if all the alcohol had been cooked off, particularly when he had already consumed quite a few drinks that night.

‘Oi, Macmillan! I’m hurt! I thought you cared about us more than that!’

A familiar, stocky, one-eared red-head suddenly entered the ice-cream store, leading Angelina.

George beamed.

‘May I introduce to you Mrs George Weasley?’

Katie, Alicia, Ginny, Lavender and Parvati all squealed with excitement, immediately crowding around Angelina to examine her ring.

Ron thumped his brother on the back.

‘Congratulations! Mum’s going to kill you, mate. Eloping in Vegas without her!’

George grinned.

‘No, she won’t. I’m the favourite, remember?’

Ron rolled his eyes.

‘No, you’re not.’

George just stuck his tongue out at his brother.

Angelina whacked him in the arm.

‘George!’

‘Sorry, Ange.’

* * *

Anthony whimpered and covered his eyes with his hands, face beet-red.

Michael sighed.

‘And I thought he was getting better...’

‘He only managed to start talking comfortably to all fully-clothed females four years ago, Mike. You could not expect him to behave any differently.’

Michael strode off in a huff, muttering about Terry’s stupid logic.

(He was drunk. Again. In fact, he’d been near-permanently drunk since they arrived in Las Vegas.)

Ernie shook his head disapprovingly.

‘We shouldn’t even be at this... _gentlemen’s establishment_. I mean to say, the vast majority of us are in committed, monogamous relationships!’

He was staring at the ceiling, flat-out refusing to look at any of the barely-clothed women who worked in the so-called _gentlemen’s establishment._

Seamus and Dean each slung an arm around his shoulders, a beer in both of their free hands.

‘Come on, Ernie!’

‘Let loose!’

‘Besides, we got permission from Vati and Lav!’

The two Gryffindors turned to one another and grinned.

‘ _You can look, but you can’t touch!’_

Ernie turned, trying to find Justin. Surely his loyal best friend would stand by him?

Only to find his (single) best friend, along with the other two unattached DA men, Lee and Michael, chatting up the dancers.

He glanced at Harry, who simply shrugged.

‘Ginny just told me to behave.’

In desperation, he turned to George (he was married, for God’s sake), only to find him discreetly taking photographs with a Muggle phone.

The red-head shrugged.

‘Ange said I could come, as long as I took plenty of photos for her.’

Ron bit his lip.

‘Actually, I think Ernie might have a point... I dunno if we should be here...Hermione would probably kill me if she found out...’

He looked rather terrified.

George clapped a hand on his shoulder.

‘It was nice knowing you, brother.’

‘Your condolences are rather premature, George. Ron, Hermione gave her permission for you to come, if, I quote, was there to keep an eye on you.’

Ron threw his hands in the air.

‘So she trusts you, but not me?’

Terry placed a hand on Ron’s shoulder.

‘No, she trusts you very much indeed to give her permission for you to come to this establishment. She, however, also knows that I will likely be the only sober one of this group.’

He turned briefly to check on Michael, Lee and Justin, to find that Michael had reached into his pocket and was about to breach the International Statute of Secrecy.

Terry rushed off to stop him, pulling Michael away from the three young women surrounding him, all the while managing to look them solely in the face

Ernie caught himself staring at a young woman dancing on a podium, and tore his eyes away immediately, seeking something safer to look at. (Why in the world couldn’t he be possessed with Terry’s self-control? Or perhaps Michael had been right when he said, in a drunken stupor, that Terry was some kind of asexual alien from outer-space.)

He glanced back at his friends.

Neville stared, entranced, by something over Ron’s left shoulder.

‘Is that an...an amorphophallus voodoo lily?’

And he walked away to examine the plant.

* * *

Meanwhile, the females of the DA sat in a large spa, relaxing and enjoying glasses of champagne, or in the case of Padma, sparkling apple juice, or Luna, guava juice, rum and Tabasco sauce.

Padma took a sip of her apple juice.

‘What do you think the men are up to?’

(Terry had told her what he thought they would be doing, and while she didn’t understand why anyone would frequent such an establishment, she trusted him absolutely. But, she was certainly curious to find out more...and the other women always seemed to know more about this stuff than she did.)

The Gryffindor girls exchanged grins.

Lavender took a gulp of her champagne.

‘Mischief, doubtlessly. But that doesn’t mean we can’t get up to a little mischief of our own...’

She and Parvati smirked.

‘We’re all for being strong, independent women...’

‘But what kind of girl doesn’t go on a shopping spree with her boyfriend’s gold every now and then?’


	12. A Very Merry Christmas (December 2004)

Padma waved her wand, and gold tinsel began stringing itself along the lounge room wall.

‘How is the extension going, Terry?’

Her fiancé’s voice reached her ears from outside, where he was setting up a room extension they’d rented to make their lounge room larger.

‘It could be worse. At least it’s supposedly instant and magical.’

Padma smiled (the mental image of Terry trying to extend their house the Muggle way was amusing) and shook her head.

‘Why are we even hosting the DA Christmas party? Our house is far too small to fit everyone! We only have three bedrooms, one kitchen, two bathrooms, a laundry, a lounge and a dining room! The garden is not that large either!’

‘Pad, you sound like the world’s first truthful real estate ad. But to answer your rhetorical question, everyone wanted to see our new house. Us hosting kills two birds with one stone. Although, it would have been preferable if the party wasn’t scheduled for two days after we moved in...Ouch!’

Padma dropped the box of baubles she was levitating.

‘Terry? Are you alright?’

He came inside, rubbing his forehead gingerly.

‘I’ll have a bruise tomorrow, but the _Instant Eze-Room_ is up.’

He started putting up the Christmas tree.

‘Though, we should sue them for false advertising. Instant and easy, my foot...’

* * *

Michael stared at the long trestle table in the centre of the extended lounge room.

‘Pork chops aren’t traditional Christmas food.’

Anthony rolled his eyes.

‘Terry and Pad weren’t going to host any sort of dinner without pork chops, Mike. You know how much Terry likes them.’

‘But...but they’re just not traditional! I mean, Christmas is about turkey, and Christmas pudding, and crackers, and chipolatas...’

‘Which are all here too, Mike!’

‘It’s the principle of the matter!’

‘Principle? There are principles for Christmas dinner governing what kind of food is to be served?’

Ron, who was standing next to Michael and enthusiastically destroying a slab of one of the succulent turkeys (Katie and Hannah were amazing cooks), while avoiding a very burnt thing that resembled a chipolata (Hermione was not), swallowed his mouthful of turkey.

‘Yeah, it’s got to taste good!’

A beaming Hermione walked over to the three young men, her own plate filled with food.

‘This is much better than house-elf-made Christmas dinner at Hogwarts. ’

Michael and Anthony gaped at her.

Ron nodded.

‘Yeah, no slave labour.’

Hermione positively glowed and kissed him on the cheek.

Ron’s ears turned pink and he smiled. Glancing at Hermione, he picked up the thing that was probably a chipolata, and took a bite.

He winced, but swallowed, before finishing off the whole thing.

Michael and Anthony watched. (This was certainly a display of Gryffindor bravery. Neither of them was willing to go near those probably-chipolatas.)

‘Though, slave labour makes really great food.’

‘Ronald!’

Hermione took a bite of her own probable-chipolata, making a face as she swallowed.

Ron looked pointedly at her.

‘Fine. But house-elves should be paid double for working on Christmas Day!’

* * *

‘Ginny, would you like me to take James for a while? So you and Harry can have something to eat in peace?’

The very tired red-head smiled gratefully at Hannah.

‘Thanks so much. I love him, but...it’s been hard.’

She handed baby James to the blond Hufflepuff.

‘Well, it’ll get better. I mean, it did for Katie and Oliver!’

Ginny shook her head, smiling.

‘Well, if James lives up to his namesakes, he’ll be even worse when he gets older.’

Her stomach growled.

Hannah laughed, rocking James gently.

‘Go get something to eat, Ginny. James will be fine with me, won’t you, James?’

The infant gurgled in response, an almost mischievous tone in the noise.

Ginny gave her son a glare that rivalled her mother’s.

‘Behave for Auntie Hannah, James Sirius Potter!’

* * *

George grinned, holding one end of a wizard cracker (from the Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes Christmas range) out to Angelina.

The dark-skinned woman grinned too, giving her end of the cracker a sharp tug.

A bang like a cannon blast went off, bright green smoke engulfed the pair, and a Catherine wheel began spinning, while fireworks spelled out ‘Merry Christmas’ in red.

When the smoke dispersed, George and Angelina were standing there, Santa hats perched on their heads. On the floor were three Reindeer Creams (a festive variation on Canary Creams), some joke mistletoe (which would give any couple who kissed under it a relatively mild shock) and three live budgies, which proceeded to fly out of the room, towards the kitchen.

Seeing the budgies, Terry groaned internally, and headed into the kitchen to catch the birds.

He walked back into the room ten minutes later, to find a large reindeer sitting (how was that even possible?) on the couch.

A moment later, the reindeer shed its fur and antlers, to reveal a rather disgruntled-looking Ernie Macmillan, who’d apparently been tricked into eating a Reindeer Cream by George.

Padma walked over to him, placing a hand on his forearm.

‘Tonight’s going to be a long night.’

He nodded.

‘At least we have magic.’

She smiled wryly.

‘I wouldn’t fancy cleaning all of this up the Muggle way...’

Terry reached over to the nearest pile of crackers (ordinary wizarding crackers, not the Weasley ones), picked one up, and offered one end to Padma.

‘We will have to clean regardless. We should enjoy ourselves for now.’

Smiling, his fiancée took the other end and pulled.

When the smoke cleared, resting on the floor beside them was a Muggle judge’s wig and a large bowl of exotic fruit.

Michael, who was standing nearby, laughed, and forced the judge’s wig on to Terry’s head.

‘It’s appropriate! You’ll be on the Wizengamot before you know it!’

‘Members of the Wizengamot do not wear these wigs, Mike.’

A grinning Parvati forced the bowl of fruit into her sister’s hands, stealing a mangosteen as she did so.

‘Vati, what am I supposed to do with this?’

Her twin rolled her eyes.

‘Why, eat it, Pad! You’re supposed to be the smart one!’

Padma looked exasperated and confused.

At that moment, Dennis Creevey decided to snap a photo of Padma and Terry.

* * *

Years later, five-year-old Charlie Boot found the picture, and immediately began quizzing his parents as to why his normally serious father was wearing such a ridiculous form of headgear and his mother was carrying an abnormally large bowl of fruit, containing several that he knows neither she nor his father are fond of, while standing in the middle of their lounge room.

Terry and Padma exchanged a glance.

‘Ask Uncle Mike and Aunt Vati next time you see them.’

(Because, unleashing an incredibly curious, and while they were obviously biased, very intelligent five-year-old on someone was a very nice form of revenge indeed.)


	13. Birth and Rebirth

Terry sat in an uncomfortable plastic chair in a St Mungo’s corridor, back perfectly straight, seemingly calm. But internally he was, frankly, a mess, wracked with guilt, worry, hope, shame, anxiety, joy...

A young apprentice Mediwitch walked past, her shrill voice carrying further than she intended.

‘It’s shameful, in this day and age, that wizards aren’t there to support their witches as they give birth! I mean...’

He flinched ever so slightly.

Yes, Padma was currently in the midst of labour, delivering their son. Yes, he was not with her. Instead, he was sitting in the corridor outside the delivery room, a Selective Hearing Charm cast upon him to block out her screams. (In hindsight, he should have blocked out the words of any passers-by too.) But, it wasn’t because he was a poor, irresponsible husband who didn’t love his wife and only cared about whether she bore him an heir.

It would be illogical to blame the trainee Mediwitch in any way, shape or form, or to admonish her for suggesting so. She did not understand. He agreed that it was better, if circumstances allowed, for a man to be with his partner as she underwent what was widely accepted to be the most tortuous thing that any human could ever go through.

But that was the problem.

He could not bear to see or hear Padma in such pain. He truly, truly couldn’t.

Not after what he’d seen during their 7th Year. Not after what he’d had to do to her.

(Once upon a time, his Boggart had been himself in a vegetative state, rendered completely brain-dead. Now, he was sure, his Boggart would be Padma, writhing in pain, screaming, as he was forced to Crucio her.)

He simply could not be with her as she gave birth. He couldn’t.

They’d talked about it, of course. 

_‘I’m sorry, Pad. I really, really am. But I can’t be there, I really can’t. I...I can’t see you suffer like that. Not again.’_

His usual eloquence had all but deserted him, but Padma, wonderful, clever Padma, had understood. And she had accepted it, and agreed with him that it would be incredibly counter-productive and worse for the two of him if he were to try and accompany her. (After all, she would worry for his well-being when she should be focusing on her own, he would likely suffer severe nightmares as a result, which would be incredibly inconvenient when one was attempting to care for a newborn, and were he to suffer the likely breakdown, it would distract the Healers.) She had given him her blessing.

_She’d given him her blessing to sit out here, in the corridor, completely deaf and blind to her pain, while she underwent a terrible ordeal to bring their son into the world._

Guilt and shame flickered briefly across his face, while his mind was consumed with it.

Merlin, he was a coward.

A braver man would not have let his personal fears prevent him from supporting his wife. A braver man would have endured and stayed with her.

Ron Weasley was there for the whole of Rose’s birth, despite what he and Hermione had been through during the War. (One night, about a year after it all ended, a very drunk Ron had told most of the DA’s men, in excruciating detail, about what had been done to Hermione, _to both of them_ , at Malfoy Manor.)

Harry Potter had been there with Ginny when James was born, despite the horrors he must have experienced, despite the horrors she had experienced during her 6th Year, which he knew she would have told him about. _(And he knew would haunt the so-called Saviour.)_

Last month, Neville Longbottom had stayed loyally by Hannah’s side as she delivered Alice, despite everything that had happened that terrible year. (He’d witnessed it himself, witnessed Neville and Hannah forced to torture each other by the Carrows.)

True, they were Gryffindors, but they hadn’t been the only ones...

Ernie had been there.

He knew, when the time came, that Anthony and Michael and Justin would be there. He knew. (And damn it, he was almost always right.)

Terry took a deep breath. Then another.

Breathe in, breathe out, stay calm.

Just like what the midwife at the antenatal classes had told Padma.

He had to look at this logically.

He was not a coward.

He’d fought. At the Battle. All that year.

He was no coward.

He was not a terrible husband.

He was almost always there for Padma. _(She knew that, he knew that, they knew that. It was as close to an objective fact as something like this could be.)_

Yes, being there for the birth of his son was important.

But so was being willing to get up in the middle of the night to do a feed or change a nappy, or taking his wife into his arms and comforting her on the days when she felt she just couldn’t do it, or, somewhere hopefully _far_ into the future, sitting down and telling his son about the birds and the bees.

And he would be there for all of that, and everything else in between. _He would._

Sure, he could not face being there with Padma when she was in the throes of labour pains.

But he would be by her side for every other step in their journey as parents.

He was not a coward. He was not a bad husband. He was not.

Terry took a deep breath, feeling most of the tension leave his body.

(How could he relax when he knew what his wife was going through?)

The door opened.

One of the Healers smiled at him.

‘Come meet your son, Mr Boot.’

He smiled.


End file.
